Ashes to Ashes: You bint You bastard
by lindalove
Summary: In the spinoff to Life on Mars, DCI Gene Hunt finally meets his nemisis in the female DCI Alex Drake. But this time...they're in 1981.
1. Chapter 1

This is my vision of how DCI Gene Hunt may well get on with his new female sidekick in the Uk TV series Ashes to Ashes, which will be a spin-off to the popular Life On Mars that will be screened in 2008. You will really need to have seen the original show to get the backstory. It's a slow burner though!

* * *

**BAM.**

Alex looked up from her desk as she heard the crashing noise, peered out of the internal window of her office into the office proper. Even before her eyes sought out and found the offender, moving purposefully now towards his own office that sat adjacent to hers - parting alarmed officers in his wake -she well recognised the sound of DCI Gene Hunt's door slamming by now. She had been here long enough as well to match the strength of the slam to his mood. Today, there was no doubt. He was _particularly_ pissed off.

Her light eyes now focused quite clearly on him as he stopped abruptly just short of his office door. Through the partly-drawn blinds she could see his not-insubstantial frame quite clearly, rocking back and forth on his heels. He was suddenly considering, she realised, on whether to turn and seek refuge elsewhere, away from all these "bloody fags and nancies", probably in the warmth of the nearest hostelry. His jaw was set in one of barely- controlled rage.

No doubt he'd just been in with the boss, she thought to herself. Because whereas the Gene Hunt of 1973, she was certain, would have said whatever had come into his brain even to his superiors, and left the office smiling – the Gene Hunt of 1981 had learnt, however painful, it was on occasion better not to give your boss the most savage tongue lashing.

You see, _this _Gene Hunt had learnt to rein in at least a few of the most unacceptable traits of his personality to protect himself from the rising numbers of bosses that would have loved to have pensioned him off by now and were often just looking for that excuse. Their enthusiasm to get rid of him though was certainly for macho competitive reasons than whether he was actually a good cop, that had become clear. Although Alex knew Hunt was still the bigoted, racist, sexist, violent wildcard DCI Sam Tyler had described prior to his accident. Still a man keener to beat a confession out of a man than use the skill of the interview, Hunt had not _changed_.

But she had been here for six months already and seen the subtle but obvious differences from the man described by Sam. Hunt was now certainly reining himself in – but only to his own methods, and where necessary. The recorded version of an interview now happened, but only after the muffled, off-record one in the cells – although he took greater care these days not to bruise. The bribes – something she knew Sam had tried to stamp out -had invariably become more necessary to get results without violence. But he always seems to come up smelling of roses, however, with that "What me?" pseudo-innocent smile.

But a repressed Gene, she had learnt in just these six months, was also a considerably angrier, frustrated, and dare she say it - even slightly more dangerous – Gene. Like a lion in a wolf's clothing, even his clothes could not hide his true nature. He wore an attempt of a smart suit, a nod towards the emerging era of the power executive, but it was ill fitting, the tie was pulled messily – by him no doubt – at an angle. He had also attempted to slick back the sides of his hair – but instead the mid-length dirty blonde/greying locks refused to be tamed, and fell about his face in a nod towards the sideburns he used to have, long since shaved. With the addition of a pair of aviator shades, the look was one of a man's man, rough-edged but suffering attempts at grooming, a man of the seventies forced to operate in a decade and place that he didn't fit.

A feeling she well knew.

You see, had you of said to DCI Alex Drake – a sensible, some might say slightly posh, well educated north Londoner – but a few months prior that eventually she would find herself in this bombastic, nightmare-fantasy world she now either lived or dreamed in, she would have laughed – or probably more realistically, filed a record of it in her Met psych files and made a note to send herself off for therapy. But here she was. She well knew from her experiences investigating Sam Tyler's case that 'here' was really a hospital ward and she was seriously in la-la land following some kind of accident. But what she didn't know – or at least, what she hadn't been expecting from even her reading of Sam's notes – was just how vivid the la-la land really was.

The other thing she hadn't been expecting though was the effect Gene Hunt would have on her. That is, that a strong-willed, educated, liberal, post-feminist such as herself would after six months be developing some extremely disturbing feelings for the - what had Sam said? The "overweight, over-the-hill, nicotine-stained, borderline-alcoholic homophobe with a superiority complex and an unhealthy obsession with male bonding."

Even now, as she looked out of the window at the 'Guv', she felt her heart and head clash spectacularly for the umpteenth time since she had begun to realise the fact she spent much of her waking hours obsessing about his behaviour perhaps pointed to other things.

Her heart told her, that in 1981, she wasn't the only alien, out of step, and out of time. Despite the fact he was an arsey, frustrating, wilful bully who had made her job a bloody nightmare since she'd first walked through that door, she also knew that, although in 1973 he threw off offensive remarks for the pure joy of simply being him, these days the remarks had become more like shields he used to fend off those people he found unnecessary, self-obsessed, indecisive, apologetic, and generally dull. In other words, anyone who wouldn't let him do his job the way he saw fit.

But, despite his efforts, she knew he could never win, and for this her every sense wanted to help him.

Her head told her however, that _hurting_ Gene Hunt – this pacing lion who had lost his jungle - was the only way she would ever get home to her daughter. Molly, the centre of her life that she missed so badly, at times she felt as if she were missing a limb.

Again, for the umpteenth time, she closed her eyes and felt her chest begin the throb with a pain she imagined must be the reality of a heart beginning to tear.

And again, she asked herself: "How did I get here?"

* * *

The details of her accident were extremely hazy. Even six months on, Alex could only remember a row with her wilful daughter at home, in 2007, rudely interrupted. Then darkness, a flash, and then – 1981. Then she had been in her London station, except it wasn't, and then she was introduced by a man in chief inspectors stripes to a team, told it was hers (again; it wasn't), and that "it was great the force was trying something new."

It had come to light that she was head of a 'new' type of team that was involved in psychological profiling, her name was still DCI Alex Hunt, she had two DIs working for her – both men – and her team was being twinned with another DCI's who was "in need of some soft soap." The man who told her this was again the man with chief stripes, a man who she now knew as Chief Inspector Nantwich.

"You'll soon meet the DCI in question. A real rough touch. Basically, anything you can do to prove he's the psychopath we know he is, then all's good," Nantwich had said, his slight frame looking smaller still as he sat behind his oversized desk. "If not, at least you'll have improved the look of the station, hur hur..."

Etc etc. It hadn't taken her long to figure out what had happened. She was in hospital, in a coma, and was having an extremely similar dream experience to DCI Sam Tyler. Except not quite. It was obviously not the seventies, and these people around her were not the same.

Take her DIs. One, DI Long, was barely there, and certainly not at all interested in working in a new team. "What are your – qualifications – exactly?" she had remembered asking him, shakily, in those first few days as she tried to make sense of the world around her, get used to being without Molly (as if she ever could).

"Well, my mother was a psychic..but to be honest, I thought that was bollocks. I'm really on the sick, and there's nothing else I'm fit for," he had replied, dully.

So she had almost fallen over herself then when she had met her other officer. DI Taylor was both her own age, apparently bright, keen, and also, it appeared, extremely modern. It was a massive relief, and a comfort.

"This is a great opportunity ma'am. I mean, this is the future isn't it? Understanding why they are what they are...it'll be sure to help us catch them," he had smiled, his not-unhandsome face like a ray of light piercing a chaotic and unfamiliar world. "And can I say, how great it is to be working with a female DCI..."

Slowly, it all began to piece together. She was in 1981, still a DCI, still based out of Bermondsey, and still essentially doing the same job as she had ever been. Except whereas in her world her work was routine, here she was a pioneer. And a female one, to boot. Personally, her old flat in Docklands was nowhere to be found. Instead, it appeared she lived out of a single room in a less-than-bijou Brick Lane. But the basics were there.

Except of course, Molly. Even now, six months on, just the memory of her sweet, yet sly, sixteen year old face brought tears to Alex's eyes. But it was something she had realised early on, that is she was going to survive just as Sam had, it was a memory she couldn't dwell on. Instead, she had to focus. On getting _home_.

The true reality of what was going on only hit her a good week after she 'arrived' however. When, as she stood in her new office, staring at the piles of alien paperwork that piled up on her desk where usually she would expect a PC, she heard heavy footfalls leading their way up to her door. And then...

Gene Hunt.

He had come barging through the door, his fist raised, obviously already prepared for a fight. But then he had stopped. Looked at her, confused. Barked: "Love, I'm looking for a DCI Hunt. Seen the sod, have you?"

For a moment, she had wondered who this man was. "Well...if you're looking for DCI Alex Hunt...well, that's me," she had replied.

To which he had looked at her with such an expression of confusion, mixed with hilarity, denial, shock and horror she knew at once that her initial impressions of where she was had been somewhat left of centre. She looked at him, then looked at him again. The clothes were different...but the face...

"You're...you're Hunt, aren't you," she had said. And time had suddenly seemed to stop.

She had known who he was, not just from a hunch, nor from some physical information gleaned from Sam's recorded notes of experiences. But because, in 2007, she had seen a photograph of DCI Gene Hunt. Unlike Sam, she had found out, Hunt had never just existed in his mind. He had been _real._

How had she known this? Because as the chief psych profiler in her unit, she had been briefly drafted in to give an opinion on Sam's mental state as part of an internal investigation into what was eventually his death. She had known Sam – not well – and met with him a few times before he saw fit to throw himself off the roof of his Manchester station. She had seen his body, seen that ivory face, broken and bruised.

But something hadn't made sense. When she had looked at his face, she had realised, it wasn't the face of Sam Tyler. It was the face of a man who looked very much like him, but it wasn't him. In fact, it was as if Sam had never been in that body at _all. _It had spurred her on to dig a bit deeper. Something, she knew, didn't sit with this case. He had been confused following his return to conciousness, but depressed? Suicidal? No. Something else had happened to Sam, she was sure. The evidence said he was dead – but something niggled inside her head, said something else. Crazy.

So she had set about some research of her own. And almost immediately, stumbled upon records of a mysterious police officer who had turned up from nowhere to serve in Manchester City police force in 1973. A DI Sam Williams, who went for sometime undercover to monitor the systems used by a certain wildcard - DCI Gene Hunt.

Hunt, she had found out, had been saved by DI Sam Williams in 1973. The DI had saved him physically in the train shoot-out. This went totally against what Sam Tyler had claimed in 2006 – who had obviously been struggling with the idea he had left Hunt & co to die - which had piqued her interest even further into what may have really happened to Sam Tyler. But what had interested her just as much was that Williams had then gone on and saved Hunt from losing his job.

Although the DI had been sent in to find evidence against Hunt, to tackle his policing methods that some of the more senior officers were beginning to have problems with, in the end the officer had actually argued against his pensioning off following the train job. Williams had argued that despite his failings, Hunt was a good, if not great, copper. He deserved a second chance. And miraculously, despite very firm arguments against this by a DCI Morgan, Hunt had got it. He had been packed off for 'advanced training', been read the riot act, but been allowed back. The records of beatings had tailed off significantly after that.

So much so that in 1980, she had found a newspaper report of a DCI Hunt being transferred to London to tackle 'emerging threats' due to his 'exceptionally high clear-up record.' Accompanied by a photograph of exactly the same, scowling, rough-edged man that stood before her now. The same man that was now, apparently, talking.

"Sorry...what?" she asked.

"I said, you deaf bint, you can't be Drake, because you're a woman. Now who the hell are you, and be quick, as believe me I'm the last man here you want to be telling porkies to."

At which point she had, despite herself, immediately become annoyed. But also, she had realised later, vaguely excited. She was actually _meeting_ this man, whom Sam had detailed so carefully, but whom she had found out, had actually _lived_. She couldn't help herself. Wherever she was, for this instance, she wanted to rise to the occasion, see whether she could tackle the infamous, nightmarish, Gene Hunt.

So she had retorted: "I _am _Alex Drake, I'm a psychological profiler, a DCI, and oh yes, thanks for reminding me – wow, I've got tits. But I think you'll find our current PM has too."

At this, Hunt had took a step back, and looked at her, hard. He snarled: "If that's what passes for a woman these days."

"You mean a woman who's not just happy to sit in the kitchen cooking for unappreciative fat bastards like you, well I guess yes." Looking back, she couldn't believe how out of character she had been. She had been so familiar, so judgemental, also... swearier. Like some DCI Tennison character. But it was only natural, she had reasoned with herself later. She _knew_ him already. And he represented...a challenge.

Alex could barely admit it to herself, but when she had listened to Sam's descriptions of Hunt, she had become incredibly interested in the larger-than-life DCI that Tyler had described. He had seemed awful, yet at the same time far from a bastard. He was hugely loyal to his team, his city, and it seemed, his wife. And it was obvious Sam had come to similar conclusions. There was a deep fondness in the way Sam had spoken about him, even when he had obviously been at his most frustrated with his methods. She understood why.

In her time, she had never met a man such as this one. Someone who seemed so very passionate, yet so very flawed.

But back to the past. He had spoken: "You guess, do you? Well I say - _bollocks._"

Hunt had then approached her desk, pushing his sleeves up in what she imagined was theatrical effect, though she could also see he had been slightly wrong-footed by the way she had spoken.

"Now _shut it_, and let me tell you how this is going to work. I don't care who you are, tart or not, it's obvious to me you are supposed to be checking up on me. I have no idea what you do or what your supposed talent is, but I imagine it involves being a pretty good shag or Nantwich wouldn't have you in here on some pretence. It's also obvious you think you have one over on me. Well, you haven't. Whatever anyone's told you is bollocks, as you'll never know me unless I want you to."

He leaned on the desk and looked her squarely in the eyes.

"I'll work with your team, because I know I have to be seen to to keep this job, which is the only thing I give a shit about as it lets me lock up bastards and run around with a gun, but I'm only going to pretend to, but no-one will notice as I pretend pretty good these days, and you're a woman so Nantwich will only listen to you if he thinks there's a roll in the hay in the offing so not really give a shit.

"I see you're not married -" at which point he indicated to her empty ring finger, "So there's no husband, and even if there was I could beat all sorts of shit out of him anyway and say he was jealous of my sexual magnetism. But what I'm saying is, you are all ALONE so any pretence you have of being one up on me is a girly fantasy that probably also involves Barbie & Ken, the latter whom you find vaguely attractive as he's got no bloody cock to scare you with."

Alex's head swam. Up until he had said 'alone' she had been feeling utterly unmoved by what was essentially a stream of pointless vitriol. But when he had said it, she felt as if the wind had been kicked out of her. All she could see was Molly's face, and all she could think of was the vast distance that stood between her and her daughter. It was if Hunt had looked at her for a second, looked into her insides, seen her one weak spot, and smacked it with a bloody great police baton.

She looked down for a moment, to compose herself. When she did she was Hunt had a great shit-eating, triumphant look on his face. He started again, like a tiger moving in for the kill.

"Tell you what," he had then roared: "If you want I'll have a word with Nancyboy, tell him that really you'd like to pack it in, go and find yourself a nice doctor to marry, and have those kids you know you really wanted but are probably just about a bit too old to have now. What are you – 35? I mean, leave it much longer, and you'll only have a life made up of staring bastards like me down during the day, failing, and watching Jim'll Fix It every Saturday night in tears for means of fun. But you know that don't you? Life isn't fun trying to match up to the guys is it? Especially as the best it is going to give you is a job you had to shag you way up to get, working with bigger bastards than me who would rather slag you off that tell you to your face they'll never take you seriously."

At which point, she admitted, she had lost her customary cool. She got overemotional.

"All of what you say, DCI Hunt, may well be true," she had replied: "But you can keep your _fucking _misogynist views to bore your long suffering wife with."

She had then stood up, leant forward, and matched him stare for stare across the desk.

"I'm here to stay, at least until I figure out what I need to, and then I'll be glad to leave you to, probably, drink yourself into oblivion. Just one thing – you won't believe me, of course, but I have worked my way up to DCI because I'm _bloody good_. Normally I would never lower myself to convince anyone, never have to, but to make my time here easier, and more importantly, more fun, I can see that's what I need to do. So bring it on, DCI. Give me the toughest job you have and watch me go do it faster and better than any of yours. Then come back to me and tell me I don't know what a cock looks like, because I've probably got one, metaphorically speaking, bigger than yours, _plus_ I look considerably hotter in a dress."

For a moment, her words just hung in the air. She stared at him, he at her. There was only one word for it - electric. She could see his mind working, working, deciding which way he was going to go next, and she hoped it was somewhere where – in her current weakened state – she could cope with. But where he did go, she realised later, was probably the place she least expected.

He had lowered his head, and moved back, away from her.

"My wife," he had said, suddenly very quietly. "_Died _last year. It's why I came to this southern, fake, unfriendly shithole, because every corner of Manchester was another bloody place she's been shopping or nattering with her mates."

Again, Alex felt herself wobble. Shit. The wife had been alive in Sam's time. She'd assumed.

He continued: "Now you can mention anything else you like about me. Call me a fat bastard, a boozer, a bully. But don't mention my bloody wife. And _never_ ask me about it either. Because I don't give a shit whether you're a shrink or not, and whether your nancy boyfriends normally wet themselves with excitement as you probe their tiny minds, I don't want to talk about that ever, that nor anything else, and if you try, well you may be a woman, but I'll _will_ slap you."

"I'm – I'm..."

"And don't say sorry, you stupid cow. You weren't to know. Though I have absolutely no idea why I just told you that, or indeed why your language is so bloody filthy. Or why you just spoke to me like somehow you think you bloody _know_ me."

He had looked at her, warily, before continuing: "So bollocks to this. Okay. I believe you, you're a bird, and you're a DCI, and we're supposed to be working together. Also, I think we can now safely tick the 'blazing row' and 'inappropriate emotional sharing' boxes for our fledging relationship you are no doubt recording in some sodding book to send me down with at a later date.

"But for now, if you are going to be any use other than making the tea or having a nice arse we can all look at, it will come out in time. I seriously doubt it, but you're a new type of tart aren't you, and if you're going to make it easier for me to lock up bastards then that's going to be good for us both. Until then, though, stay out of my face."

To which, he had stormed out of the door, leaving Alex standing – but only just.

She wasn't sure who had just won. It was only afterwards she realised he hadn't mentioned the thing she would have expected immediately. That is, her skin colour.


	2. Chapter 2

After about three months had passed since her first meeting with Hunt, Alex Drake was ready to give up. Hunt had been bypassing her entirely. Whole cases had slipped her by as he 'failed to mention' he was investigating something or had 'been too flamin' busy' to need any help.

Little did she realise back then, that just around the corner, her relationship with Hunt was about to change entirely, and in more ways that she could have even forseen.

Several times she'd walked into the office to find absolutely no-one there at all, as they were all out on a case, save for her own DIs sitting there, looking annoyed. Well, Taylor looking annoyed at least, as he seemed to be the only one that actually bothered to really engage with her. Long was a lost cause, and spent much of his time these days fiddling around on a Rubicks Cube.

She admitted, she had become quite relaxed with Taylor of late. Although she was well used to having male friends in her normal life, she was relieved she had found someone who seemed so – modern. Especially as the loneliness, and Hunt's dogged attempts to keep her firmly out of the loop, had been getting to her. Also, she had to admit, even in eighties fashions Taylor was rather attractive, not that she had ever rated a man by his looks, or would ever seriously consider any relationship with a colleague. All the same, she hoped Taylor could overlook her own horrendous padded shoulders that, try as she might, she could not rip out of her suit jacket.

So when Taylor asked her to go for a drink one lunchtime, she gave in.

"You know Hunt's just testing you out," Taylor said to her, as they both sat in the Old Justice, the station's local pub that she vaguely recognised from 2007. He shifted in his seat, his blue eyes gazing at her steadily. "I mean, in some ways the fact he's trying to bypass you, means he thinks you're worth trying to get round. Otherwise he'd probably take you along for the ride just so'd he have someone to make the tea. It's obvious he knows that's out of the question. You'd have his balls."

"Yes. It's like he doesn't know what to do with me." she agreed, herself sipping on a flat lemonade as her ears recognised the strains of Neil Diamond's 'Love on the Rocks'." Pelligrino water hadn't quote made it to London, and Duran Duran obviously didn't stretch to Bermondsey, she mused.

"Well, yes. I mean, he probably also doesn't really know how to work with you. He's never really had to deal with a woman on his level...and let alone a..erm.." his voice trailed away. Taylor reached up an nervously adjusted his pencil-thin tie.

"Someone of mixed race? It's okay you know, you can mention it. And for the record, my father was the son of an African immigrant, and my mother a good white Garden of England girl. They met while at work; him a doctor, her a nurse. You could say public service runs in the family."

She sipped her drink again, before continuing: "But if Hunt won't give me a way in, I need to find one. It's really important that I get to work with Hunt. For lots of reasons."

The main one being to get close to him, and...betray him. Whatever she had to do, to get back to Molly. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise up at the thought.

In those first few weeks, Alex had had a lot to deal with. She'd also, being a single woman rather than a single mother, had a lot of extra time to think. And she had come up with her own theory on why it was that both her, and Sam Tyler, had been drawn to the same man albeit in different times. This was no straight coma she was in, she was certain. She accepted that in her own time, her body was no doubt laying in a hospital ward. But her mind, her personality, was in no dream. It was really in the past.

How then had two officers both been pulled to the same man? She had her own theory on this as well. Gene Hunt, she was certain, somehow had the force of personality to _demand_ it.

It had taken her a while to figure out, but now it seemed almost obvious. Gene wasn't a cancer. He was a leech, who had almost pulled the wool over her eyes the first time she met him just as he had done so well to poor Sam Tyler. A leech that somehow made you feel a rapport with him, even a loyalty, when in reality he needed you to save his sorry arse from himself.

Afterall, had Sam Tyler – who had obviously returned to 1973 as Sam Williams – not argued his case for his and saved his career? Not to mention his life in that train job?

So it seemed sensible that she too, was there to save his life, career, or both. It was obvious he was in need of psychological help and who better than her to offer it. His drinking had always been bad, but her expert eye had seen his hands shake on one too many occasion now for her to believe his claims it was 'social only'. No, he was no longer borderline alcoholic, but the real deal.

But if I'm here to save your life, Hunt, I'm certainly the wrong woman, she had thought to herself that very same morning, as she had walked to work, looking out upon a London she had only seen in photographs and distant memories. She had been 10 in 1981. There was nothing, not even a sympathy for a man slowly killing himself, that would keep her from her daughter.

For now, though Taylor, was talking.

"You could always go to Nantwich. He'd demand Hunt let you in."

"No, that's no good. I need Hunt to trust me. And to do that I have to show him I can manage without any help. Especially Nancy..I mean, Nantwich - who he hates possibly even more than he hates me. But..."

Her voice slipped away, and before she could say another word, it happened again.

She looked around her. And then – flash. She was in 2007. She was sitting in the Old Justice gastropub, which was buzzing with office workers, wining and dining contacts and clients. The wooden bar of 1981 was no more. In its place, a steel and pine monstrosity. The Old Justice's aged barman had also disappeared, and in his place was a snake-hipped young Italian man, who was now peering at her with a look of surprise. Just as she opened her mouth to reply however...

Flash. 1981.

Not for Alex Drake hospital noises, machines, murmuring nurses. For Alex, there was only momentary visions of her own time. The future.

"Drake...Alex! Are you okay?" Taylor was holding onto her arm, looking in to her face, alarmed. "What the hell happened there? You spaced out entirely."

"It's okay, I'm fine," she breathed, steadying herself against the table at which they sat.

Momentarily, she spoke again: "In fact...I've just had a thought. I need to stop this, Taylor, and start using what I know. Of the future."

"Of the what?" he looked incredulous.

"Listen. It might seem incredible, but I've got a good understanding of how the work we do, profiling, will make a difference to future policing. So what I need to do is solve one of these cases Hunt would normally keep me out of, before Hunt does, by our methods, proving our methods. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely," he replied, his blue eyes glinting. "And I think I know just the case. Charles and Di's do. The bomb threat."

"A bomb threat? At the royal wedding?"

"Yes. Hunt got a letter yesterday from some nutter threatening to put a series of bombs on the route to the cathedral. He was of course immediately convinced it was from some 'socialist monarch-hating deranged hippy bastard high on dried cabbage'. Suffice to say, he is now charging around the city tearing up any Socialist Worker offices he happens to come upon."

Drake looked at Taylor. "And why didn't you say this before..."

Taylor smiled. "I'll come clean. I wanted to get you out for a drink."

Back in her time, she would have given him a withering look and left him smarting as he sat. But this wasn't her time, she knew, and Taylor was the closest thing she had to a friend. She needed someone to talk to, if nothing else, to keep her sane. That is, if she wasn't already totally do-lally.

"I know. And I'm flattered." She reached out and touched his hand. "But this job is important. And so is cracking Hunt. So help me catch up with him. I'm going to lay down a challenge not even he could resist – even from a 'bloody tart.'"

* * *

Gene Hunt leant back in his chair and yelled. "Why am I surrounded by bloody idiots?" He was holding court, as usual, in the main office. Around him sat his wider crew, fronted as normal by Ray and Chris. Not for the first time, Hunt tried desperately to ignore the full-on fluffy perm that Ray had taken to wearing lately. 

"If I were a sheep, I'd be thinking you're head looked like a pretty good chance of some humping action," he had yelled when he had first witnessed the monstrosity. But Ray had been undeterred. He had taken to London – and its women – like a duck to water. As Chris had suddenly developed which Hunt thought was a slightly disturbing love for the electronic box aka 'computer' that he claimed would 'make their lives easier'. "The only way that piddling thing would make my life easier if it happened to blow up and take your bloody head off," he had yelled at Chris in response.

For now, though, Hunt had other things on his mind. There was three days to go before Charlie and Di's big day, it was a warm July, and they were still no closer to a solid lead as to who or what had threatened to blow parts of central London sky-high. He had to admit it, he was getting desperate.

Not that he was going to admit it to her. She had come to him, just a day or two ago, with that bloody Taylor at her heels. He looked as smug as shit, as normal. So obvious the slimy shit was doing whatever he could to get into her knickers. She, on the other hand, had made a surprising amount of sense.

"Give me a copy of that letter," she had said. "It's all I ask. No help, no conversations needed, nothing from you. Just a copy of it, and let me and my team see if we can figure this thing out before you and yours. If we do, I hope you'll see fit to start involving us in what the hell is going on. If not, well - " she had smirked - "I'll wear a pretty dress to work, cook your dinner, and even laugh at your jokes. Excuse me if I bail out of the idea of conjugal duties though. No job's worth that. Deal?"

He had looked at her, standing there, and finally admitted it to himself. She was an utter bitch. But an extremely hot one, with – he admitted – amazing skin and legs to die for. A bit too skinny for him, but even in that bloody manly suit she looked good enough to eat. If only the silly cow would just stay home and stop pretending at being a copper.

"No deal. You're going to use some of your people aren't you. I imagine it's probably one of yours doing it anyway, bloody bastards, always causing problems," he had snapped back.

"By 'my people' I imagine you are referring to the wide range of communities that live in London that just happen to be black. I wondered how long it would be before that chestnut came up. Why on earth you think most of them would care about your bloody beloved monarchy I have no idea." she glowered at him. "No. My theory is this isn't anything to do with anti-monarchists. Or poverty. Or the have and have nots. But give me that letter, and I'll prove it."

He had to admit, he had been intrigued. His own leads had taken him nowhere, save for many a grotty bedsit and grungy office full of bearded types who professed to care for the common man. I mean, he was a paid-up Labour supporter, and loved nothing better than a good union who actually made a difference, like the miners' one that so far had managed to ward of Thatcher's attempts to put them out of jobs...though he wasn't sure where that was going to end up. But when it slipped into nasties at the Queen it started to be about something else entirely.

So he had given her what she wanted, and let her go.

What the hell she thought she was doing, he had no idea, he now thought as he gazed across at his witless, if loyal, team.

As if to answer his question, suddenly the door pushed open, and there she stood. "Hunt. If you'd like to go down to cell three, you'll find our bomb threat suspect awaiting questioning," she said, with not a little bit of 'told you so, you fat bastard' in her voice. "Though you'll not be able to excuse getting anywhere with your fists, mind. Don't you know it's not nice to hit ladies."

Hunt had been incredulous. He had to admit, not once had he thought a woman could have been behind the threats. Not that he thought women were too nice for such fund and games – he's met plenty of twisted birds in his time. But it just hadn't added up...

"She was never serious, it was obvious from the letter. Just mentally ill, but with a fixation, for some bizarre reason, on our good Prince Charles." Drake continued, as she strode purposefully into the office, Taylor trailing behind her with a strange expression on his face, as if he was just as surprised as anyone. "To begin with, much of it focused on Diana, rather than our future King. Any serious anti-monarchist wouldn't really bring that level of personality into it. Also, the letter itself was made up of letters cut out of 'Woman'. Not your average read for a hardened anti-monachist. Finally, Bucks Palace already had a series of letters it had received from a woman claiming that Diana was, 'an evil blonde'. Exactly the same phrase used in..."

"Okay. _Shut it_." Hunt raised a hand. His team looked at Hunt, then at her, then back again. "You bloody win. _This _time."

* * *

Later that evening, in the pub, she couldn't resist sidling up to Hunt as he sat slumped with his cronies drowning what she hoped were at least some sorrows. The main thing, catching the woman – although she doubted very much she had offered any real threat – had been accomplished, and now at least the poor thing was going to get the treatment she had so obviously needed. But she couldn't resist baiting Hunt ever so slightly over what had been an obvious success. 

"Well, I hope this means you'll be making better use of profiling," she said, as she sat herself down on a stool directly next to the big man. Over in the corner, Taylor watched, smirking. "You've got to admit, it brought results."

Hunt didn't even raise his eyes from his pint. Instead, he downed it, laid it back on the table, and slurred: "Well, who's a clever pair of knickers. Yes, I said so, didn't I? You did your bit. Have no idea how, but somehow you managed it. Bloody luck if you ask me, but there you go. Can't do any harm to _amuse_ ourselves with what you do in future."

She began to smart. He was so _bloody_ stubborn. "There was no luck, Hunt. It's science. If you've spent as many years as I have trying to understand the criminal mind. And profiling is used a lot on the Continent..."

He turned to look at her.

"The only thing worth picking up from the Continent is how the bloody Les Agents don't hold back with their batons to knock seven sorts of shite out of the wops. As for the criminal mind, by now, you may have noticed, I'm trying to understand the totally shit-faced mind. And I don't really need you or sodding Tory boy over there," he pointed an unsteady hand at Taylor, "shoving it down my bloody neck. Okay, so you're part of the bloody team. So what, sling your blody hook."

An hour later, he was pissed and laughing, and she was sitting, stony faced at the bar. Taylor put out a hand, touched her arm.

"I don't know what you were expecting.," he said. "But Hunt never gives much ground, ever. It's why he's such an annoying bastard. The fact he admitted you'd helped at all is in fact, the most ground I've ever heard him give. I'd consider that a win."

"Whatever," she replied. "I'm going." She turned and looked at Taylor. "Walk with me?"

Ten minutes later, they were outside. They strolled wordlessly together, as her mind churned over the problems that seemed to face her. How she was ever going to get close to Hunt, gain his trust, she had no idea. But obviously just being a good copper wasn't going to be enough. There was never going to be any sort of - friendship.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her arm, stopping her in her tracks. Taylor. She could tell immediately from the look on his face that his intentions had taken a new turn. "Alex..."

She in turn placed a hand on his chest. "Taylor." she replied. "Let me stop you right there. We're work colleagues and friends. You've been a great support to me since I started. But this isn't the time or the place. And to be honest it probably never will be, for as long as you directly report to me."

But he shook his head, smiling. "No. I know you say that, but it's not how you really feel. I know you're lonely, Alex. I can tell. You're out of place here. I can make things easier...". He then reached out an arm and pulled her closer to him.

Alex stiffened. "Taylor, no. I'm serious." But when she tried to pull away, the grip he had on her arm tightened.

"So, my dear, am I," he replied. In the darkness now, she could barely see his face. But his voice said everything she needed to know.

In a flash, she twisted her arm out of his grasp, her body automatically moving into the self defence techniques that had been drummed into her time and time again as a young PC. But as she pulled loose, his other hand reached out and grabbed her by the neck, slamming her up against a nearby wall where she was momentarily winded.

"You bloody women, all the same," he muttered. "Expect us to listen to all of your shite, and then freeze up when things get a bit interesting. You've been all over me since you got here."

"Hardly," she wheezed. But by this time, he wasn't listening. So she looked down, saw an opportunity, and prepared to kick the shit out of right where it it would surely hurt.

Whoomp. But she never got the opportunity. Before she even had time to even get close, Taylor was pulled off her at speed, and himself then thrown like a sack across the narrow street.

"You bloody shit," Hunt shouted, and he picked Taylor up, and then slammed his fist straight into the younger man's face. Alex heard a familiar sound of cracking bones. Taylor yelled in pain. Undeterred, Hunt then began to punch him repeatedly in the stomach. Not once, she noticed, did he appear worse for wear of a drink or two. In fact, it as if not a drop had passed his lips.

"Hunt. HUNT! I had it under control," she said, as she pulled herself together. "Stop it."

"Do you mind," he said. "I'm just ' - whump - "enjoying "- whump - "myself." Taylor's cries had now fallen away to nothing.

Momentarily, Hunt twilred around on his heels."All done," he replied, as Taylor fell, stone cold, to the floor. "And before you go ON - I imagine you could have bloody handled it. I just didn't fancy leaving your chances of surviving a walk with a serial-bloody female bothering bastard to fate."

"You mean – he's done that before?"

"You mean, turned into a nasty bastard? Yes of course. Why'd you think they stuck him on your team with that other loser Long? It's luck alone he's not crossed the line entirely. It's hard though to bang up a copper, even these days. I would've warned you, but as I say I thought you'd probably be pissed of I didn't give you the opportunity to smack the crap out of the tosser. Though I guess tonight - I just wanted to be sure."

Alex stood, there, totally shocked. She had of course had men – and indeed women – offer unwanted affections before. She had also had a few go over the line. But she had normally seen it coming. This time, she had had no idea.

Hunt turned to her, and looked at her closely, gave hee the once-over. Apparently satisfied, he continued: "No harm then. Though just remember, I don't know what blokes you've been used to before, but at this station, there's no man that's going to really take a female copper seriously, no matter whether or not she might have any talent or not. In fact, as your level, they probably actually want to get at you. So any bollocks any of them give you about how glad they are you're here, is just that, bollocks. They're trying to get into your pants.

"You did a good job today. I admit it," he said. "And I also admit, you seem to have a knack for figuring out what the hell warped thought are going on in tiny minds of the scum that we have to chase. But you've got to admit, your ability to gauge men seems to be as far off the button as Mr Spoon with a piece of shit spaceship. In other words, bloody crap. So just stick to the job."

As he turned to walk away, he turned for an instant, and gave a faint smile. "Drake. I mean, if you must have some school girl crush, for god's sake see the nose in front of your face. How you've resisted me so far is anyone's guess, you silly bint."

And with that, he swept away.

* * *

NB If people are liking this please review and tell me - it helps sustain discispline to carry on! Lindalove 


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